Seasons of Love
by bisexualtrixiefranklin
Summary: As the seasons change, so does life. There are a new set of trials and tribulations at every turn, but there are new ways to love, too, if you're willing to look for them. And Nonnatus house is the perfect place to do that. (Title take from Rent song!)
1. Summer 1960

_Summer 1960._

* * *

Trixie was awfully good at hiding things. During the day, she'd outline her lips with rogue and brighten her eyes with a thick layer of mascara. She'd appear at breakfast with a smile on her face - she was some sort of expert on faking a smile - but, if you looked closely, her eyes would be dark. All through the day the smile would stay, bright and wide, and not once would anyone see it crack. Patsy was sure it _did_ crack, perhaps several times a day, but she never saw more than slightly swollen eyes or heard more than a quiet sigh.

Trixie was good at facades; so good that even Patsy, who was almost renowned for her ability to see right through people, struggled to see what was really going on in the girl's head. She wasn't sure she would have even an inkling at all, really, if she didn't share a room with Trixie.

* * *

She'd known for quite some time that Trixie's childhood was just as broken as hers - in a very different way, of course - but equally broken. Whilst Patsy had suffered the horrors of humanity first-hand, Trixie had watched someone she loved struggle through the aftermath of war, screaming in his sleep, drinking his way into oblivion, half the man he used to be. Patsy had been struck with the realisation that Trixie was an awful lot like Delia in that sense - they both shared the compassion and empathy of people who'd watched someone they love scare themselves awake with memories too horrific and inhumane to venture from between their lips. Both shared the same sense of understanding as someone who had cradled their loved ones back to sleep and sat up with them, holding their hands, when they couldn't face the nightmares anymore. Both were curt and quick with the words when asked about the nightmares, or the screaming, and both were skilled in the art of changing the subject. Sometimes, when Patsy woke up from a nightmare, her voice hoarse from screaming, her body convulsing under the bedclothes, she had a hard time differentiating between Trixie's gentle touch and Delia's soft hands.

And then Trixie had met Tom. He was good for her, much in the same way that Delia was good for Patsy. The notorious drinking hadn't stopped – Patsy doubted it ever would completely – but it had lessened, and Trixie's eyes were the brightest Patsy had ever seen. They'd never spent a night with each other, to Patsy's knowledge (and, quite frankly, she didn't care) but Trixie's persistent insomnia seemed to have cured itself and Patsy was no longer being woken up to Trixie rearranging the wardrobe or organising the vanity in the small hours of the morning. Not that Patsy _minded_ , of course, but it was a welcome change to have the girl sleeping soundly throughout the night. She'd never seen a couple more in love – she'd caught Tom looking at Trixie like she was the most precious thing in the world more times than she could count. She'd always looked away though – she'd learned from experience that some looks were for behind closed doors. She'd caught Trixie's hand lingering on his cheek for longer than was necessary, watched her face light up whenever he walked into a room, watched her smile after he kissed her. Sometimes, the jealousy burned in her throat, but she always swallowed it. Delia was _not_ Trixie's fault, nor was she Patsy's, but Patsy had come to terms with the fact that she would need to be satisfied with stolen kisses and secret touches.

There had been blissful peace, for a while, and Patsy had relished in it, not doubting that it would be snatched away any moment.

* * *

And it was, on a frightfully warm night near the end of June, when Patsy's body felt too heavy for sleep. Trixie had slipped in a few minutes previous, her every action muted for Patsy's benefit – it was very early in the morning and she should have been sleeping. The blonde midwive had slipped into her pyjamas silently, climbing into bed soundlessly, switching the small bedside lamp off and plunging the room into darkness. There had been quiet, and Patsy had almost missed the change in Trixie's breathing. It suddenly became heavier, more erratic, catching in the back of her throat, and Patsy had recognised the sound almost immediately. Growing up in a dormitory with eleven other girls had made her rather respondent to the sound of someone crying themselves to sleep. It still made her heart rate quicken, all these years later, and all she wanted to do was to slip into Trixie's bed beside her and hug her until her tears dried on her cheeks. But she hesitated, almost out of habit. Crying was a very private thing and very few girls on the dorm had liked to be comforted – whether it was from embarrassment or shame, Patsy never quite knew, but it wasn't until Trixie's muffled whimpers had turned into fully audible sobs that she climbed out of her own bed and towards the other girl's.

"Trixie?" she whispered tenderly, crouching on the floor nudging the other girl's shoulder. Trixie turned around to face Patsy, her face smudged with salt water.

"Oh, Patsy," she said, her voice shaky, "I didn't mean to wake you-"

"You didn't – I've been up since before you came in," Patsy moved her hand to Trixie's head, stroking the girl's hair gently, "Now, budge up will you? I'm freezing."

Trixie smiled and wriggled to the other side of the bed obligingly. Patsy squeezed in beside her, finding her hands under the blankets.

"It's a frightful squash, isn't it?" Patsy giggled, and then her expression turned suddenly solemn, "Now, whatever's the matter?"

"I broke off my engagement with Tom," Trixie began, her voice wavering and fresh tears pooling in her eyes. Patsy reached out and wiped them away with her thumbs.

"When?"

"A few days ago, now."

"Why?" Patsy coaxed cautiously, not wanting Trixie to clam up.

"Oh, Patsy, I was such a fool," Trixie said, and the tears started coming thick and fast as the girl broke into sobs, choking out her words, "We h-had an argument – it was all my fault – and I came back an-and I-I d-drank so m-much that I-I pa-passed out. S-sister Julienne found out – she always does, doesn't she – and she asked me, asked m-me if I w-wanted my ma-marriage to start out on a l-lie. And I didn't. So that's that."

"Oh, Trixie, darling," Patsy murmured, pulling her friend closer to her, embracing her tightly, "You should've said something."

"I was ashamed," Trixie sobbed into Patsy's shoulder, "I've never lost control like that, not ever. Not really."

"Does Tom know?"

"No – and you _mustn't_ tell him," Trixie said, a sense of urgency in her voice, "I don't want him pitying me. He shouldn't have to be ashamed about being in love with someone who can't control herself.

"I won't tell him, Trixie, but I can assure you that he doesn't think that," Patsy soothed, rubbing Trixie's back.

"Why wouldn't he? I'm a disgrace," Trixie broke down again, pulling away from Patsy and burying her head in her hands.

"Trixie, you are _not_ a disgrace," Patsy said firmly, pulling Trixie's hands away from her face and cupping her face, "And even if you were, do you really think any of us would stop loving you? Me? Barbara? The nuns? You are _so_ loved, Trixie – don't you understand?"

"Thank you," Trixie said in a barely audible whisper, taking Patsy's wrists in her hands, "I'm alright. I promise."

"I'll be right across the room, if you need me."

* * *

When their alarm went off at six sharp the next morning, neither girl spoke of the previous night, but Patsy knew the events were remembered. Many a time she came back from a long shift to discover a mug of lukewarm Horlicks on her bedside cabinet, or found that someone had already sterilised her equipment when she went down to do it herself. Trixie never _said_ anything, but Patsy was perfectly fine if Trixie wanted to operate that way, through secret favours and hidden thank yous. She was used to hiding parts of her life away – she was starting to learn that, sometimes, the best parts of life were the parts that were hidden away, private and secretive, whether they were in the form of personal belongings in a box, midnight confessions or lilting Welsh accents.


	2. Autumn 1960

_Autumn 1960._

* * *

Barbara was waiting for her on the stairs when she walked into Nonnatus. Pasty felt immediately guilty as she took in Barbara's appearance – her usual sunny disposition had been replaced by a concerned frown; swollen, bloodshot eyes and a crease in her forehead. She'd rushed down the stairs to meet Patsy before the redhead could even get the chance to shut the door properly, her concerned words spilling out in a hurried torrent.

"Oh, Patsy, you look awful. Everyone's been so worried; Trixie was absolutely beside herself all morning," Barbara fretted, voice full of relief, one hand on either of Patsy's arms, "Oh, please never do that to us again. Patsy?"

"They're-they're sending her back to Wales," Patsy mumbled distantly, almost to herself, reaching one hand out onto the wall to stop the hallway spinning, "They're sending her back to-"

She was cut off as her knees gave way and she started falling to the floor, half-conscious. Barbara caught her in a flash, kneeling in an undignified fashion on the linoleum as she tried to support Patsy's limp body.

"Oh, Patsy," she soothed as the older girl started to regain consciousness, "How much sleep have you had?"

"I-I couldn't sleep, Babs," Patsy whimpered weakly from where she was now half-lying on the floor in Barbara's arms, "I just kept seeing her face."

"Sh, sh now, Patsy," Barbara hushed gently as Patsy began to cry, stroking the redhead's hair, "Come on. Bed, _now_. I'll pop the kettle on and we can have a mug of Horlicks, alright? Here, let me help you up the stairs."

* * *

"I've got some Horlicks," Barbara said as she nudged the door to Patsy and Trixie's bedroom open, "And toast, too, because I guessed you probably haven't eaten anything either."

"I'm not hungry," Patsy said from her bed as Barbara laid the tray down on Trixie's bed, handing Patsy a mug.

"Nonsense. But you must eat _something_ , Patsy. It's Mrs B's special honey," Barbara sighed, "Here, I've got some Polo mints in my pocket; at least have a few of them."

"Thanks," Patsy smiled weakly as Barbara pressed four Polo mints into her hand, "You know, I'd forgotten how frightfully marvellous Horlicks tastes when one is sad."

"Yes, it's awfully healing – I'd swear on it more than I would milk of magnesia, if I'm honest," Barbara giggled, taking a sip of her own drink.

"You know, if Chummy were here right now she'd be awfully proud. She's always recommending Horlicks to fix any ache or pain," Patsy's smiled faded, "But I suppose there are some pains that Horlicks can't quite cure."

Barbara reached forward to clasp Patsy's hand. Patsy half-smiled at her through the tears she hadn't realised were there.

"Sorry," she whispered dejectedly, blinking away her tears.

"Don't be," Barbara said, squeezing Patsy's hand gently, "Is it...is it terribly awful? Delia's...condition, I mean."

"It's ghastly," Patsy took a slow breath to steel herself for her next sentence, "The doctor said it's the worst case of retrograde amnesia he's ever seen and-"

"Amnesia?"

Patsy nodded.

"She's been getting these awful, violent seizures too. And she's horribly concussed too, as you'd expect," tears had started to leak out of Patsy's eyes again, and she bent her head against them, feeling Barbara's fingers tighten around hers.

"Doesn't she remember anything?" Barbara asked cautiously, terrified to upset Patsy (strong, brave Patsy whom she'd seen cry, maybe, four times) any further.

"She looked like a lost child, Barbara. I've never seen that look on her before. She's always been the strong one. But she was sitting in that hospital bed, and her hair was all pulled back away from her face, and she just looked so _small_. Nothing like the Delia I know. Or knew, I suppose."

"She's not dead, Patsy-"

"No, but she might be better off if she was," Patsy snapped through her sobs, "Oh God, that's so awful of me, but at least then we could have some bloody closure. At least she'd be _gone_ and we wouldn't have to live with all this god-awful uncertainty. None of the doctors could make us any promises. And, with such a huge memory loss, what are the odds of her remembering _everything_ , I mean, _really,_ Barbara. Do you know what she asked me? She asked me if I was her friend. Her _friend,_ Barbara. She didn't even know my name. And I just had to sit there like everything was fine. She's twenty-bloody-four, Barbara. She should be living her life to the fullest, here in London, and instead she's being packed off to Wales with her parents because she can barely even remember her own name. She's trapped in her own body, Barbara. I can't even begin to imagine how _suffocating_ that must be. And you know the worst part? It's all my fault. She was running late for work and I told her to take my bike. And then she gets hit by a bloody car. And I hate myself for it, Barbara, I really do. Because if I had just let her walk, or phoned her a cab, she'd be bloody safe, wouldn't she? Not sitting in a hospital bed, some shell of her former self."

Patsy stopped suddenly, her breathing ragged, chest heaving. She hadn't realised just how much the harsh reality of Delia's accident hurt until she said it out loud. Sometime during her rant, Barbara had made her way to sit at the foot of her bed, tray long forgotten on Trixie's quilt.

"I'm so sorry, Patsy," the younger girl said, her voice thick, tears staining her cheeks, "I am so so _so_ sorry. But you _mustn't_ blame yourself."

Patsy didn't reply, instead leaning forward and bundling Barbara into her arms, holding her fellow midwife close. Barbara leant her chin against Patsy's shoulder, and Patsy could feel her shuddering breaths on her neck.

"It's not your fault, Patsy," Barbara sobbed into the older girl's uniform, "It's _not_ your fault."

"I know," Patsy sighed tearfully, but she wasn't talking about the accident, "I know."

Barbara broke away, wiping her nose with the back of her hand like a child.

"You should try and get some sleep, Patsy" she said, her inner nurse taking over, "Even if it's just an hour or two. Sister Julienne has taken you off the rota for the next week, by the way – she's said you've to see her if you need longer-"

"That's awfully sweet of her."

"Yes – she's like that, isn't she?" Barbara smiled, "I'll send Trixie up when she comes back from her rounds – she's been in a state all morning. I'm surprised Sister Julienne even let her out on her rounds-"

"I'm sorry. I should've called at a more appropriate time."

"Not your fault at all," Barbara said, beaming in a very Barbara-like fashion, "If you need anything, just call. I'll be right downstairs – or someone will, at least."

"Thank you. Oh, and Barbara?" Patsy called, just before Barbara could leave the room, "Pass me that toast, will you? I'm suddenly ravenous."


End file.
